You Can't Lose Control if You Give It Away
by Blast Radius
Summary: Jane's not always averse to giving up control, especially when it's to someone that she trusts.


Mandatory Disclaimer:

Not my characters, not my universe, NBC owns everything, I own nothing, etc.

I really wanted to write something long and plotty for this fandom. Then the muse said, "Hey, intricate plots are a pain in the ass. We're going to write Jeller shower smut instead. In second person!" (I really hate that bitch sometimes!) For mature readers only. Or for people over 18 who refuse to act mature (and you know who you are!). So you tell me, kind readers—does second person work for this? Hot, or not? Inquiring minds want to know!

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 **You Can't Lose Control if You Give It Away**

It's still dark when you wake up, and it takes the space of a couple of heartbeats to orient yourself. The warm glow from the alarm clock is yellow-green (yours is red), and the sheets are soft and smooth, unlike the scratchy government-supplied ones on your own bed. It's so much warmer than your own place too, but that's likely due to Kurt's still-sleeping bulk lying only inches away from you. This isn't the first time you've been in his bed, but waking up here still feels sharp around the edges, like the knife you insist on keeping within arms' reach every night. Kurt stopped giving you a hard time about it after the first time you dreamed about the CIA's "enhanced" interrogation techniques and woke up screaming.

It's been almost a month since the FBI finally stopped Sandstorm, since Shepherd killed Roman. That wasn't his real name, not any more than yours is Remi, so they put "Ian" on the death certificate, just like they'll eventually put "Alice" on yours. But Ian and Alice really died a long time ago in an orphanage in Pretoria, just like Roman and Remi did when the ZIP hit their bloodstreams. You'd hoped that the drug could pull him back from the abyss, but instead it left him teetering on the edge, staring into the gaping hole in his mind and hating every glimpse he managed to catch. He ended things himself by taking the bullet meant for you and died with a smile on his face—the same gentle one you remember him wearing when he was just a boy cradling a pet rabbit.

Weller commandeered a plane and a pilot and took you and your brother's ashes to South Africa. You'd both hoped that being back in your birthplace might shake some memories loose, but seeing the little house you grew up in and the orphanage that Shepherd took you from only produced disjointed images of the toys you'd shared with Ian on the back porch of the house and the kids you'd fought for trying to steal food from you. The original plan was to bury the ashes with your parents, but the sad, impersonal markers in the dusty potter's field changed your mind. Instead, you went back to the park near your old neighborhood and poured them at the base of Ian's favorite climbing tree, now grown to twice its previous height. It's the last place you can remember him being truly happy.

The night you got back, Kurt sensed your black mood and, instead of taking you to your empty apartment, stopped for pad Thai and a six pack before bringing you back to his place. You ate, and drank, and the two of you spent the rest of the night dismantling the crib in what was supposed to have been the baby's room. You're not the only one to have suffered a personal loss of sorts.

By the time everything was packed away, the travel adrenaline had worn off and the jet lag had set in. He insisted that you sleep in his bed while he took the couch, and you lasted all of twenty minutes wrapped in soft sheets that smelled of his aftershave before nervously making your way to the living room and telling him you didn't want to sleep alone. In fact, you didn't want to sleep, period. (You eventually dozed off, but not until much, much later.)

It hasn't affected your work so far, and neither of you intends to let it do so in the future. You think Patterson may have guessed, but she hasn't asked and you haven't shared. For once in your life, you're holding onto a secret that gives you joy instead of heartache, and if Kurt wears more blue than ever to the office because you love the way it emphasizes his eyes, no one is the wiser.

There's an early staff meeting this morning, but if you get up now you'll have time to fix breakfast while he showers. You've only done it once before, but it was such a small thing and he was so touched that you made the effort that he didn't seem to mind that the eggs were seriously overcooked. Maybe you can do better today.

The glare in the bathroom is something you're still getting used to: his mirror is so much larger than yours, the lighting is far brighter, and the white tile reflects all of it. A month ago, you still showered in the dark more often than not, letting the tattoos blend into the shadows so that you wouldn't be constantly reminded of how they got there. Nowadays, they're just as likely to summon memories of that first night here, when Kurt insisted on seeing them all in excruciating detail, traced his lips across his favorites over and over again until you discovered another way to occupy his mouth.

You're still rinsing the shampoo out of your hair when the curtain pulls back with a rattle.

"You're up early," he smiles.

"So are you."

He's already more than half hard and his gaze flickers down to his groin as his grin broadens at your unintentional double entendre. You can feel your cheeks flushing from more than just the hot water.

Kurt shakes his head a little sheepishly. "I was just thinking about last night. Sorry I wasn't at the top of my form. Maybe you'll let me make it up to you tonight?"

This must be some sort of apology for making you come only once last night before you both passed out from exhaustion. You didn't exactly have any complaints, but, then again, you know what a high standard Kurt holds himself to. And the way he looks now, all spiky hair, earnest eyes and ready cock—you know you want him again.

"I don't think so," you say gently as you reach for the body wash. The corners of his mouth droop a little with disappointment until you add, "I'm going out for drinks with Patterson and Zapata after work. But maybe you could make it up to me now?" And you pull the curtain aside and welcome him into the spray.

He hums to himself happily as he takes the bottle out of your hands and fills his cupped palm with the product. He rubs it all over your shoulders, and then gravity takes it wherever else it wants to go while he smooths those huge hands of his down your sides. It tickles a little, right up until he takes hold of your hips and pulls you toward him, grinding himself lightly into you, and _that_ doesn't feel ticklish at all.

You both let your hands roam—his over your backside and the space between your shoulder blades and yours against the whorls of hair on his chest. He wraps strong arms around your back, trapping your arms in place as he bends to kiss you. The warmth, the water rushing over you, the feel of him under your hands and crushing your lips and nudging your belly—it's dizzying.

He releases you so suddenly that you almost lose your balance for a second, explaining, "I need to see you."

You're not entirely over the ink making you feel self-conscious, and you drop your eyes away from the intensity of his bluer-than-blue gaze. He cradles your breasts in his soapy hands, rubbing and teasing, but avoiding your aching nipples until you lift your eyes once more to directly meet his.

"So beautiful," he murmurs as he touches you again, not withholding anything this time, and the calluses on his palms add just enough friction to make you moan. The sound spurs him into action, and he rinses you both thoroughly before moving his hands to your waist and turning you to face away from him, toward the back corner. He places a hand lightly behind your left knee, then lifts your foot up to rest on the edge of the tub, opening your body to him before wrapping your hands around the towel bar mounted on the wall.

"You okay with this?" he asks softly.

You were a little nervous about your first time with him, but he was patient and encouraging, and it wound up being like the helicopter all over again—muscle memory took over and you discovered that flying isn't the only thing that he makes you feel skilled and strong at. This is a new position for the two of you, though. It doesn't seem to be triggering any memories, so you're not sure if you've tried it with anyone else. Turning your back on someone—it makes you vulnerable, but this is _Kurt_. You already trust him with so many other things. Your body is really the least of them, and you know he'll make sure it's good.

"Yes." You just want to come and you want it now. "Don't make me beg, Kurt."

He doesn't answer, but, a second later, his mouth finds the tattoo of his name between your shoulders. His tongue traces the letters even as his right hand leaves your hip and slides forward, down between your legs to caress you lightly, then more firmly as you push forward against his touch. One thick finger pushes inside, just a little, and you can't help the needy whine that leaves your throat as it pulls out again just as quickly.

"Patience," he murmurs into your ear as he picks something up from the alcove where the shampoo lives. "I don't want to shock you, but this isn't the first time I had you on my mind while I was in the shower."

You swallow hard as your psyche helpfully provides you with an image of him: head thrown back and eyes closed, fist wrapped firmly around himself. That gorgeous vision is interrupted, though, as his finger moves back where you wanted it. It's slippery now, rubbing and teasing gently before curling back inside you, hotter and deeper and still not enough. "More," you gasp, and this time, you feel him close behind you, legs adjusting slightly as he figures out the angle and then...

 _Oh._ So _slick._ It's like some kind of bizarre magic trick, his firm length nudging against your thigh in one instant, and deep inside you in the next, creating sensations so intense that you can't begin to describe them. His panting echoes off of the tile, or maybe it's yours. It doesn't matter; your chin drops toward your chest as you wait for him to start thrusting into you, but he doesn't move. And when you try to move things along yourself, he wraps his left hand around your hip to still the motion and chastises you.

"Uh-uh. You said you'd be patient."

You said no such thing, but it's too good to give up on now, especially when he eases those smooth fingers back down to your clit and begins to rub slow, little circles around and across it.

It's a damn good thing you've got this towel bar to hold onto, because things around you are beginning to blur. His touch is just light enough to keep bringing you closer without letting you spill over, it's just firm enough to make you totally okay with him prolonging this.

"Touch yourself," he urges as he nips at your right earlobe. "I want you to feel us together."

So you risk taking your right hand off of the bar and sliding it down to rest on his much larger one.

"Good girl," he chuckles, and if he didn't have you firmly pinned between his cock and his hand, you and he both know you'd lay him out for such a sexist remark. Before you can spend any more time getting irritated, he twines his oily fingers between yours and guides them a little lower, so that you can actually touch where you're joined together.

You're no stranger to the feel of your own flesh; there's no telling how many nights you resorted to that when your mind wouldn't stop racing, desperately searching for some hidden memory that might help uncover your identity. But this is completely different—you're spread wide open, and you marvel at the feel of your inner lips hugging his length, how your body reacts by softening in response to his hardness. He gasps at the scrape of your nails along his circumference, and you can't resist making a couple of circuits just to feel him twitch in response. But he insisted that this was about your pleasure, so you eventually guide his hand back up to your center, show him just how much pressure to use and where.

"Oh, God," he mutters as he feels your orgasm starting at the same time that you do, tiny little flutters that, build, rebuild, and then finally crest as your muscles contract and pulse, under his hand, and around his cock. It's bright and fiery and the cry it pulls out of you echoes crazily around the bathroom for a few seconds. He holds you tightly as you come back to yourself, his hand still massaging just a little longer to help ease you down.

He's breathing hard now, and you know that this measure of control can't last. He gives you a few more seconds to recover before running a thumb over one of your nipples. Your hips jerk a little in response, and this time, he rewards you by pulling almost all the way out of you before sliding back in firmly.

It was _so_ worth the wait. Your insides are still molten, still sensitive, but there's barely any friction, just this wonderful sense of pressure, of _stretching_ to welcome him into your body. He pulls out before rocking back into you, flicks a fingertip against your clit again to prove that he hasn't forgotten about it, and groans at the shiver that travels through your entire body. He keeps it slow and easy, and even though you can't make him move any faster, you discover that leaning forward a little more at least gets him deeper.

He notices the difference too, and finally picks up the pace even as his fingers start working you again in earnest. In spite of your previous orgasm, the sensation moves from _too much_ to _not quite enough_ at breakneck speed. His left hand steadies you, helping him synchronize the movements as he alternates between long, smooth thrusts, and shorter, powerful ones. When he pulls you to stand taller, his teeth closing lightly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, you finally give in completely and stop reaching for your next orgasm. It's already barreling down on you; nothing short of an armed invasion of Kurt's bathroom is going to stave it off now.

His movements are getting sloppier, more raw power than finesse, but you're well past the point of no return and each stroke ratchets you higher, higher, until you find yourself hanging onto the towel bar like a drowning victim and chanting a litany along the lines of

 _oh god Kurt please more please I want I need I love you—_

And at that last, he comes with a roar and you're right behind him, both of you shaking breathlessly as you wait for the world to come back into focus. You grab this moment, this instant of pleasure and heat and light, and stuff it into the space that used to hold your memories. God knows there's plenty of room. Maybe you'll never fill it up completely, but at least it's not achingly empty any more.

When you get back enough of a sense of balance to be able to safely put your foot down, Kurt turns you gently in his arms and brushes the hair back out of your eyes. "I love you too," he says as he cradles your face in his hands before kissing you softly. "You know that, right?"

It's the first time he's said it (it was a first for you too, even though you've known it for a long time and you still don't know why you blurted it out in the middle of _that_ ) but he's right. You know that somehow, at some point over the last several months, he went from loving someone he thought was Taylor to loving you, loving _Jane_ , even though you're both still trying to figure out who the hell you are (and maybe more importantly, who you'll be in the future).

"I know," you smile back at him. And for the first time since you met, you feel like you're worth it.

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Feedback is love. And encourages me to write more. ;-)


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